


fourth and garreg.

by duelbraids



Series: in downtown garreg mach: a fe3h modern au [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 800 Years Later, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, F/M, Modern Era, no one uses their real names, technically set post-azure moon but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22889734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duelbraids/pseuds/duelbraids
Summary: in imperial year 2018, an undergrad on a passive aggressive mission meets a very strange girl working at a flower shop.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Claude von Riegan
Series: in downtown garreg mach: a fe3h modern au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670695
Comments: 29
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

An unassuming shop sat on Fourth Street, a white wood building, with large windows all around, save for in the back, where a greenhouse was attached. Rain batters the yellow awnings, which protect boxes of primroses and violets from the violent drops. Above the awnings sat a deteriorating sign, the paper peeling up, that read  _ All In Bloom,  _ and a phone number so faded no one could read it. The buildings around it were all red brick and the alleys were painted with graffiti, all shades of the rainbow. They were apartments and office buildings, all decorated the same. Everyone knew it was a Tuesday, so tomorrow, the graffiti would be washed off. And Wednesday night, more would go up. 

The endless cycle of Fourth Street. 

This unassuming shop was quiet inside, rhythmic electronic music playing from a phone speaker, in the far back. Though it is crowded and cramped, each section of the floor not necessary for walking covered in some form of foliage, the shop is rather comfortable. A dead daffodil bush is being attended to by the cashier, while she listens to music. Underlying the sound was a small, square TV, the wire antenna picking up only a few stations. Nothing was on around this time, save for soap operas, talk shows, and the start of the news cycle. Through the fuzzy image, the weather scrolls across the bottom of the screen, and a female anchor turns as the camera focuses on her. 

“Up next; losing your children is every parent’s worst nightmare, and for the past decade, it’s been Ionus Hresvelg’s reality. The investment mogul’s eleven children have been missing for over thirteen years, after being kidnapped while he was on a business trip. Today, a pit of bones has been found in the woods near the Hresvelg estate, thanks to a search funded by the children’s uncle.” The reporter tuts her tongue, “Efforts to identify the bones have already begun.”

“May this finally bring some peace to the family.” A male reporter chimes in, “In better news, stock in Agarthan INC. has skyrocketed today—“

The cashier turns off the tv, rather violently clicking the power button, before wiping her hands on her ripped denim overalls. Her blue shirt is too big, yellow letters emblazoned with  _ Garreg Mach University  _ and  _ established 1926.  _ The sleeves have been cut off, making the arm holes scoop downwards, showing off a  _ slightly  _ dirty sports bra. Hair an argent tangle tied into a bun, and with big, square-framed, grey glasses, she practically  _ screams  _ college student. Her face is round, freckled and pale. Yet, there are very strange scars on her arm, and between the burns and the surgical cuts, there is a tattoo of a poppy flower on her left forearm. The cashier is lackadaisical today, singing along with her phone.

_ everything is sex, ‘cept sex, which is power. y’know power is just sex, so ask yourself who’s screwing you. _

“Let’s get screwed,” she sings, rather loudly, “I don’t care.” It quickly turns to mumbles and humming, as she forgets the words and stumbles the lyrics. It seems she can’t be bothered, continuing her assignment. A crimson bouquet, one of six ordered by… oh, she’d have to check, the cashier couldn’t remember. Someone at the university. That was the only business the little shop got.

The door swings open with the jingle of a bell. He leaves his umbrella by the door, the droplets hitting the floor loudly. Rather handsome, the customer who approaches wears a green, ribbed turtleneck, grey plaid pants, and black loafers. One could guess he’d had a presentation that day, especially given the trifold tucked under his arms. He has brown curls, which catch the light and coil all the right ways; his skin is a warm brown too, and blemishless, save for  _ one  _ pimple, starting on his cheek. Despite his good looks, he’s in a foul mood, eyebrows knitted. Lips twisted downwards, he almost demands to the cashier, “How do I say  _ fuck you  _ with flowers?”

To which the cashier responds quite literally, “Well, you’d need at least ten flowers per letter, and some floral arrangement foam-” She lets a goofy smile sit on her lips. 

“What?-“ 

“Well, you asked me how to spell  _ fuck you  _ with flowers-“ She giggles at her own joke, and then, through her laughter, “Sorry, I thought it was funny.” 

He chuckles, sour apple eyes brightening as the joke lands. “No, no, it was,” His grin is strange; the cashier feels like he’s hiding something. Then again, so is everyone, herself included. “But I need to be a bit more subtle than that. Y’know, make a bouquet with flower meanings, except they all mean that I hate him.” 

The cashier nods, “Well, it’d certainly be easier to buy and carry a bouquet, huh? Wait just a moment, please” She ducks under the counter, and though the customer tries to peer over, all that’s heard is the shuffling of papers and a loud  _ thud,  _ which is followed by, “Aw, shit.” 

“You okay under there…?” the customer calls. 

“Just peachy!” the cashier responds, and holds a thumbs up over her head for him to see.

Her voice was anything but peachy. With a grunt, she stands up, hefting a large book from under the counter onto it. It’s weathered, old leather smelling a bit too musty for either of their tastes. “My boss said to use this for flower meanings, apparently he made it himself.”

“When, back during the Crest War?” 

“He’s not  _ that  _ old. Maybe before the Enbarr Wall was torn down.” She flips a few pages, coughing as dust flies into her face. As she peruses the pages, she asks, “So, what did your intended bouquet victim do?” 

The customer takes a deep breath in, “So,” he begins, “I’m at Blad U - y’know, across town? Part of it is in that old monastery too.” She nods, he goes on, “It started back in the debate tema, when yours truly was elected president, this guy threw a  _ fit.  _ A full on tantrum, saying it wasn’t fair, that his brother and his father were debate team presidents, that I was a transfer anyways and didn’t deserve it, while he had history. Whatever, right, it’s a democracy, that’s what you get for trying to argue that reverse racism is real,” at the cashier’s  _ mm-hm,  _ he continues, “Outside of the debate team, I also work for the Student Government Association–– Do you go to school?” 

“Hm–” The cashier snaps her head up, before pointing to her shirt, “Yeah, GMU. Wait- where did you transfer from?” 

“The Nejem Institute for Science and Communications.”

“The what-”

“It’s a four year in Almyra, but my grandad got put on hospice, so I transferred to Blad U, and my mom and I are staying with him until he passes.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the cashier tells him, though her tone is awkward, as if she doesn’t know what to say, “That… must be really hard.”

“He was an asshole before the lung cancer, but now he’s an asshole who I have to be nice to.”

“Oh.”

The customer continues on, either not noticing her awkwardness or ignoring it, “Blad U does reelections every semester, so that way, in theory, everyone has a chance.” 

“In theory,” she parroted, taking a pen from her overall pocket and writing something down. Smooth recovery indeed.

“Nothing done by the Blaiddyds’ has ever worked in praxis.” The customer’s snark gets a good, sort of silly sounding chuckle out of the cashier. “Anyways– Working on my campaign, and my manager busts in to tell me that,  _ surprise,  _ Tantrum Baby and his daddy’s money are running too.”

“Can you buy school elections?” Her nose wrinkles, and the cashier begins to think aloud, “Aside from buying individual votes, I suppose, but it seems like a lot of work to rig what is already a popularity contest. Just give away free food, you’d win my vote.” 

The customer quirks an eyebrow, “Now, define free food - like ramen packets and veggies or hot food in like, tupperware?”

“The latter is preferred; the stove in my flat can barely cook anything, much less actual veggies.” She responds in time, “But, the former definitely wins you points.” Then, she puts a finger up, and asks, “So far, this doesn’t seem  _ fuck you flowers  _ worthy.”

“We’re getting there, princess.” The nickname gained the customer a dirty glance, and he shrugged, “Yeah, it doesn’t work for you, does it?  _ Anyways,  _ Tantrum Boy and I get the two Sophomore Class reps, whatever. The plan was to have it be me and my good friend Petra, but I guess Tantrum Boy’s bowl cut and daddy’s money won.”

“You know Petra?” Is what the cashier responds with, putting her pen down, “Sweet girl, astronomy prodigy, graduated early so now she’s a 17 year old sophomore?”

The customer laughed, and nodded, “Yeah! How d’you know her?”

“Oh, she’s friends with my coworker, Bernadetta, and when I first moved and started working here, Bernie introduced me to her friends.” The cashier looks away, “Since I didn’t know anyone, y’know.” 

“Ah.” The customer moves his hands forwards, saying, “Okay, focus. So: threw a fit about me winning debate prez, decided to run against me but only managed to get elected with me, and  _ finally,  _ auditions for  _ The One Thousand and One Almyran Nights  _ begins, and like, I’ve been looking forward to this play all year. I mean, those are  _ my  _ fairy tales! My dad told me those when I went to bed!” 

The cashier nods her head, “I’ve read the book, t-the translation done by Celik Shirazi, circa…. 1200, I think? But, go on-” 

“Tantrum Baby not only auditions, he gets the role of King Sharyar, and I didn’t even  _ get  _ a part. In the One Thousand and One Almyran Nights. Me.” He points to his face, and the cashier nods. “So, I ask the director what’s up. Y’know what she says to me?”

When the cashier shakes her head, the customer raises his voice a bit, “She says ‘Well, Lorenz raised the point that we at Blad U don’t have the ability to do a full, correct casting, and to cast only one Almyran would draw attention to that.’ We don’t have enough people of the right race, so let’s not cast any people of color at all, how about that?”

“Oh,  _ fuck  _ him!” Comes the cashier, jaw set square.

“Fuck him!” the customer responds, “You get it!” 

“C’mon,” The cashier picks up her notepad, with different flowers scribbled onto it, “Let’s go into the greenhouse and see what we’ve got.” 

“Hell yeah,” The customer leans over to read her nametag, only to find that it’s upside down. “W-wait, what’s your name?”

“El. Just El.” 

“Okay, Just El. My name’s Claude Mirza, but, uh, you can just call me Claude.”

“Alright, Just Claude, follow me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for some reference, almost all of my modern AUs are set in the same universe, which means that magic and other setting-specific things are relevant. also yeah, technically it's post-azure moon, because that's the only route where twsitd is never defeated, and the church stays the same. expect more world building and banter ahead!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> banter, some flower talk, and more banter.

Claude could’ve sworn the temperature jumped twenty degrees when he walked through the greenhouse doors. For having a friend of a friend who works at this shop, he’s never actually been in the back, and he glances around. Next to the door is a thermostat, and Claude almost _balks_ at the reading. _23 celsius_ \- and yet he was sweating! Almyra got hotter than that! El had the right idea, her hair tied off her neck and a sleeveless shirt. Underneath that reading, though, said _60% humidity._ No wonder, ugh. Combined with the thickness of his sweater, still slightly damp from the rain, Claude felt like he was suffocating. 

Catching his attention, though, are the multitude of plants, most of which are in beautiful states of bloom. Waxy palms and vines with beautiful, multicolored leaves stretch towards the ceiling. And what felt like millions of bushes of flowers, all of which looked perfect for his passive-aggressive mission. Claude finds himself rather in awe of the place - after all, he knew that three people in total worked here, and only two of them had the ability to actually water all these plants. Someone must be getting paid overtime, right?

Meanwhile, his guide into this forray had disappeared between a plant with white spots on the leaves and a rather large snake plant. He knew that one, given that it was the one plant he could keep alive. Scanning for her, Claude holds back laughter when he sees her straining to reach a pot hanging from a trellis. As he catches up, Claude chuckles, “Need a hand, El?” 

“That’d be great- if we’ve got any carnations, they’ll be up there.” She still struggles to reach up, even as Claude easily grabs the planter. 

For a moment, he grabs the pot by its hanger, and holds it high, over El’s head. Only a silent moment, where El glares daggers despite snickering, and he relents with ease. “So, what’s the plan, o flower guru?” Another glare, and Claude rubs the back of his neck “Yeah, that one doesn’t work either.”

“I’m not the flower guru, really, you want Bernadetta for it.” she shakes her head, but still, shows him her little sketch, which looked like a beautiful bouquet, he’s sure, but must seem offensive to people who understand the meanings. She points to the different flowers as she talks “ _ But,  _ according to my boss, this should be enough. I was thinking it should be made up mainly for larkspurs and snapdragons; haughtiness and deception, in that order. Sort of like the fluff around the main centerpiece, these yellow carnations and a hydrangea. Disdain and  _ heartlessness.”  _ She explains, before going on, “I particularly like the hydrangeas, but they can be a _ bit _ too big, so maybe only one, yeah?” 

“Are you size shaming your plants?” Claude jokes.

“You realize that bouquets can’t be an entire bush’s worth of flowers.” There isn’t much humor to her response. 

“Not with that attitude!” 

She stares at him, as if waiting for something, but then shrugs her shoulders. El looks into the planter, and hisses, “Oh,  _ shit _ .” 

Questioning, Claude looks over. There are plenty of flowers, in red, pink, and orange… but no yellow. “Shit?” 

“Ugh, I  _ think  _ I know what happened.” She sighs stretching back up to replace the pot, “GMU had some choir event and wanted a bunch of boutonnières and corsages, and since the outfits are blue, they wanted the yellow contrast, and  _ now _ we have no yellow carnations.”

Claude shrugs, and scans around them. On the ground, a large, rectangular planter held plenty of flowers, and his eyes caught a  _ beautiful  _ yellow bud, though nothing like the carnations. Carnations were fuller, with uncountable petals, but this flower only had five petals, with hair like stamen sticking out from the middle. He picks one without thinking, “Well, can we use this instead?”

El laughs, and reaches to take it - Claude inadvertently flinches, which makes El jump, and suddenly the two of them are sitting in quiet awkwardness, staring at each other’s hands. She backs away, as if that can help. “Um,  _ that, _ ” she tries to start, “Is a  _ Ranunculus repens.  _ A buttercup flower. A lot of places consider them invasive species, because they just grow  _ so fast,  _ you could grow a buttercup in a cupboard. But as a gift, they mean you’re telling the receiver that you think they’re charming. I don’t think it’ll work.” 

He tries to touch the middle of the flower, before El snaps, “Don’t! They’re poisonous too. Contact with the sap causes blisters.” 

“Coulda lead with that, buttercup.” Claude places the flower back on the bush, as if it would somehow reconnect. 

Making a rather funny grimace, El shakes her head, “I think of all of them, this one is the worst.”

“Wh- C’mon, you just said it means I think you’re charming!”

“When  _ receiving  _ the flower- and I  _ also  _ told you that they’re an invasive species!” 

Claude picks up the bloom again, more carefully, and tries to put it in her hair. El ducks away, and moves, “No! I don’t want blisters on my  _ scalp! _ ” Giggles filled the air as Claude faux-chases El with the flower, though he halfway through drops it, mainly to avoid the consequences. Blisters… so  _ not  _ fun. They’ve escaped into the very back and stopped by a workbench, almost on purpose. His cheeks ache with how wide he’s smiling, which is… okay, he realizes. Besides, El starts talking again, and it takes his attention away. Her eyes are wide, lavender staring at his face, “I-I think I have a plan.” 

“And that plan?” He asks, rather quietly. 

“We’re just gonna cut the carnations and kinda… rearrange everything to fill in the space. No one else has to know we had a different plan, right?” Her eyebrows are knitted together, even as she grabs some rather sharp, handheld shears. 

He nods, and El turns away from him. Claude watches her from behind - the high neck of her shirt covers her back. She cuts two, large, circular flowers from a bush, and places them on the bench. Claude wonders how she could ever work here, all the time. He’s sweating like a  _ bitch,  _ but then again, he was wearing a sweater. 

“So,” Claude starts to talk, to distract himself, “Is being called Buttercup really that bad?”

“Yes,” she responds, “It’s worse than princess.” she puts snapdragons - a flower he recognizes - down on the workbench.

“Wh- they’re practically the same thing!”

“No, one is simply sarcastic endearment and the other is a flower. An  _ invasive  _ flower.” she disappears around the corner.

“El?”

“Yeah?” She appears before him, placing some long, violet flowers on the bench.

“Have you  _ never  _ seen the Princess Bride?” Claude’s tone is appalled. 

El rolls her eyes, “No, I have not.” she begins to wrap the arrangement.

“We’re watching it-” 

“We?” 

“I- mean- yeah! It’s a fantastic movie, and I don’t want a friend of mine to have never seen it.”

Casually tying the bouquet, El turns to him with it in her hands. “Am I your friend?” 

“You  _ did  _ just dedicate a good hour and a half to a fuck you bouquet for me.” Claude reminds her. 

“I’m getting paid to make this fuck you bouquet.” She counters.

“You certainly didn’t have to go to all this trouble. I’m  _ clearly  _ oblivious, you could have sold me any number of the premade bouquets and told me they all meant something negative.” An easy parry. 

Squinting at him, El begins to walk away, before snickering a bit more. “Yeah, I guess I am. C’mon, I’ll ring you up.”

“Really? I thought your boss was gonna come down from the nursing home to process the payment.” 

**_“Claude!”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a more cohesive plan for this fic, and i THINK this might be more of a series rather than simply one fic, just because i have some more serious / angsty ideas and i don't think people want that in a fic that starts with fuck you flowers, yknow.


	3. Chapter 3

El hums as she walks out of the greenhouse, still holding her garden shears, knowing that Claude is following her with the bouquet. “Go on ahead to the register,” She tells him, “I’ll be right there.” 

At first, he seems to think up a comeback, but El watches him shake his head, and meander towards the front. She wonders what he was going to say, but shrugs. She checks on some of the plants near the door of the greenhouse. After all, she didn’t have much reason to come back here during the rest of shift, and it would be easier to tend to them now, while she was thinking about it. 

While she checks each pot, El hears Claude turn the TV on again. If El were honest, she forgot she had turned it off. The peace lilies all need watering, of course they do. “You’re so thirsty,” she tells the plant, running one hand down a broad, flat leaf, “Do you just drink constantly, your cells are gonna burst!” 

Claude laughs, which makes El respond, “Don’t mock me!” 

“Not mocking, it’s cute. You talk to plants.” he responds from across the shop.

“Perhaps because they don’t talk back. Unlike  _ some of us. _ ” 

“My backtalk is the best part about me.”

“Agree to disagree.” El calls back.

She moves around, finding a moisture meter, and begins to go through the motions - carefully checking each plant, making sure they’re not completely dry, and watering to the right level. Desert plants need less, while tropical plants prefer more. And peace lilies like to drown, constantly. 

Meanwhile, the TV continues making noise, still on the news cycle. If El had to guess, they’ve probably moved on to the weather. At least, she hopes. She wants them to have moved on. She hears a voice read out the temperature, and her heart rests in her chest. (hearing about  _ before  _ just felt strange now, now that there’s so much distance.)

El approaches the counter, tucking one strand of hair behind her ear - smearing some dirt on her face. “You ready to check out?” 

“Ready when you are.” Claude responds, to which El only laughs.

“Well, you can’t leave until you pay, so…” 

“Legally, yes.”

El covers her mouth as she laughs, “I didn’t take you for a thief. Especially from a  _ small business _ .” With a pause, El adds, “$35.89, tax is added.”

“So you can see me stealing from a chain store?” Claude cocks an eyebrow, “That’s a cheap bouquet.” 

“Anyone should. Unless, you know-“

“They commit wage theft.” Claude returns. “I know the ethics of which laws to break, El.”

El nods, and extends her palm out, “C’mon, 35.89, unless you want a crisis of said ethics.”

“Alright, alright,” Claude hands her two twenties, and El opens the cash register. 

El has to think through her math - the cash register having almost never worked, and basically used to hold the cash until the end of the shift. She hand writes the receipt, which reads  _ “Passive Aggressive Bouquet”  _ followed by the price. If she rounded the price up, it made 36, and then she had to subtract 89 cents - wait, no, that wasn’t right. She needed to add something, right? “Four…” she mutters.

“My change is 4.11,” Claude tells her, then apologizes, “Sorry, you looked like you were having trouble.”

“I was.” El tells him, looking down at her hands. She swallows her spit.  _ Four ones, a dime, and a penny.  _ “Math… isn’t my strong suit.”

With a loud  _ clack,  _ the cash register closes, and El hands Claude his change. She’s sure she must be a sight, a little bit of potting soil on her face and confusion knitted in her eyebrows. El’s not sure if she was like this before (before, before, as if there ever was a time before  _ just El,  _ the flower shop girl) but now, she must always stare at numbers and trace them with her finger just to make sure they’re correct. Otherwise, they  _ swam,  _ up the page and off the screen, which just made it so much harder. Whatever, she thinks, she can manage well enough, and Claude only seems mildly annoyed when she repeats the numbers back to him a few times. 

The TV plays loud again, “Breaking news!” Cries the reporter. “We’re on the scene of the discovery of ten sets of children’s bones, where police say they have identified all bodies through their dental records. The bones, as suspected, belong to the missing Hresvelg children, leaving only one unaccounted for. A live press conference with the children’s uncle is being held at Agarthan INC.’s office in Enbarr.”

Claude moves to the TV, which continues to blare out. El freezes, almost without thought to it, almost as if it is a live sound, and not something out of the stupid tv that played everyday. “I know our little Edelgard is out there somewhere.” Arundel spoke through the television, echoing around the shop, “And I will find her.” 

It feels like her stomach is dropping, dropping towards the floor, and El holds her hands tight. “And now,” the anchor speaks, “Oswald von Riegan of Riegan Investing has announced he has developed stage 3B lung canc-” Claude finally figures the TV out, realizing that the power button was very small, and on the back of the TV. 

He comes back to the counter, and chuckles softly, “Yeah, that’s a little too sad.” Claude finished putting the change in his wallet, “Y’know, Maybe I could tutor you. In math, I mean.” He comments. “I wouldn’t mind.” 

“That’d be… nice.” El isn’t sure what to say, her hands still shaking, but she tries to play it off. She almost hands him the receipt. “Oh, wait.” With quick writing, she puts her number on the top of his copy. “Now it’s finished.”

Claude sees what El wrote, and a smile crosses wide. “See you soon, El?” He poses it as a question.

“See you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> definitely the shortest chapter, i could have probably made this just a part of the last chapter buuuut - i'm so excited! also wow, two posts in a day. who AM i


End file.
